


The Theoretical Tail

by bmouse



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: M/M, Xeno, bit more xeno than my usual stuff, tailed!Garak
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2014-04-20
Packaged: 2018-01-20 02:40:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1493614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bmouse/pseuds/bmouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Garak wears a full tail-sleeve. All the time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Theoretical Tail

**Author's Note:**

> Written by request for @cosmictuesdays on tumblr, aka it's all a her fault.

The first, and most paramount rule of the game was that he didn't ask about Garak's tail.

Cardassians had them. Some Cardassians at least, of the stiff-and-armored kind you saw trailing Dukat or various visiting dignitaries around the station. There was apparently a whole pauldron-like addendum to the regular cuirass uniform that fit over the tail and looked like it spelled trouble for enemy kneecaps. 

He knew from some of the more ‘traditional’ (read: lurid and overtly-violent) novels that an accredited duel technique involved knocking someone down with your tail and then stabbing them through the throat. Upper-class status was a good tail-keeping indicator, those were found sheathed in colorful short to three-quarter fabric sleeves that inevitably complimented the pattern and colors of the formal suits. Higher-ranking military officers though seemed to view having kept one's original tail as something of a faux-pas, the unfavorable indicator of a desk-jockey and not one willing to risk so much as a non-essential regrowable limb for the State, though there seemed to be exceptions there as well. 

He'd mentioned as much over lunch and received, preening, his due reward of two fond catlike blinks. One from the regular eyelid and one from Garak's nictitating membranes which having moistened the surface left his eyes especially clear and displayed that fascinating pale blue to its' best advantage.

"Yes indeed, Doctor. How astute of you to notice. If I may elaborate, the noted strategist Anjan Peral was also known as 'The Whole' not only for her masterful understanding of the varying alliances of the entire battlefield but because she died of old age in a mountain fortress with many grandchildren and in full possession of her original tail."

Oh that was unfair. It took all his willpower to keep his eyes from darting to where the long column matching green cloth draped life-like down the back of his companion's chair, the lower part curled slightly by his shoes.

Garak was not the only Cardassian he'd seen wearing a full tail sleeve. He'd guessed it was a matter of politeness for those re-growing and a few older diplomats used them on whole tails, presumably to conceal imperfections and add to their dignity. Garak of course, hardly needed extra dignity and wore _his all the time_. The patterns on his tail-sleeve changed with the rest of his wardrobe and once or twice Julian could get away with sneaking an extra look by remarking “Purple squares today?” and the like but there was no way to check if the contents were a cunningly sewn prosthetic (perhaps hollowed out to store poisoned blades or a backup phaser? other spy things?) or one of those thick but oddly elegant appendages that were nevertheless never allowed to go without some kind of covering. 

This one particular tail: theoretical, factual or long-since past had always been a point of interest but now when Julian sensed that things between them may be coming to a head it had become a point of obsession. 

An obsession, rather like the man it was attached to that could not be approached directly. (Nevermind that the primary area of observation would necessitate staring at his friend’s entirely proportional and sturdy rear) No, asking was right out. Especially since he fully expected Garak to smile pleasantly and airly reply 'Oh we dock all our exiles as a matter of course!' which, regardless of the truth of the statement would be sure to ruin his appetite and leave him smoldering with quiet impotent rage that someone would do that to a healthy limb. That someone else could _see_ and _touch_ and then maim.

He was so busy controlling his eyes that his mouth slipped away from him.

"And do you plan to emulate her example?" God, but that sounded too eager.

"A tailor’s career is fraught with danger yes, but luckily the sort of sewing disasters that would prevent one from doing so are few and far between. Some of my little flounderings on the way to my current profession however..." he trailed off suggestively.

Especially suggestively, Julian thought, and with his fingers subtly curling into his neatly folded napkin - a clear sign of enjoyment. As soon as he noticed that a good deal of his frustration melted away. So it was a game really, for both of them. Well, who was he to deprive Garak of his little joys? And keeping up his end of the exchange he frowned and pouted a little until the next turn of the conversation carried them through the remains of the lunch hour. 

“Actually, I do believe you still have my volume of Peral and I have a mind to refresh my understanding of the period.” Garak said as they were getting up.

“Tomorrow? Or I suppose I could stop by tonight. It would be after 1900, I warn you.”

“That will be fine, we hardly need to stand on regular visiting hours.” 

Yes, his last dozen experiences with Garak’s officially assigned quarters were a great improvement over his first. He was even flattered to notice some change in the decor: more books, new wall hangings, some greater sense of ‘inhabitedness’ that he suspected was staged for his benefit. Oh he was almost positive that Garak slept elsewhere, maybe even kept several boltholes around the station but a Cardassian maintaining a specific deception for one’s sake well, that was an almost transparent sign of affection.

“Still, I feel rather awkward keeping you waiting around so late in your Sunday best. Especially when post-shift I am guaranteed to present a less-than-dashing figure.”

“How strange, you are usually rather more confident in your figure. I’ll manage, I’m sure.” With a last mild smile and a flick of the tail-sleeve, he turned around and melted into the crowd. 

Now that was definitely the customary end to their afternoon: one last flirtation and a blatant lie. After eight pm Miles was liable to open the door in only worn, striped pyjamas, with baby Yoshi in a chest sling and one forlorn slipper hanging off his left foot. Julian wasn’t sure Garak owned any casual clothes. ‘Maybe they left the tail too exposed.’ he thought ruefully and amused himself by imagining his friend in ratty training sweats and full embroidered sleeve until he got back to his office and the arguably more worthy retroviral research.

\- - -

In between then and now had been a long, tedious day. He was floating in that tired no-mind state as he stood outside Garak’s door so that when he heard “Come in, come in!” he didn’t think too much and did exactly that.

“Forgive me if I don’t get up. An unfortunate incident with a fibrous, chemically unstable Tellurrian wool necessitated a bath.”

And that’s when Julian Subatoi Bashir realized that he had rather set himself up.

Garak was sitting in an armchair, legs primly crossed with a book on his lap. He was wearing a bathrobe. Dark red and trimmed in seafoam green it covered him quite effectively from collarbone to lower thigh but even as his brain registered this a ridiculous percentage of concurrent trains of thought were already derailed by ‘bathrobe!’ and an internal calculator was coming up all zeroes as he desperately tried to fight off a flush. He did his best to look as if he was looking anywhere but at strong, rounded calves or the wide interlocking scales over the front of his shins, which glinted in the low light of the reading lamp.

Garak, naturally, continued speaking as if nothing unusual was happening. As if he had always had a habit of showing off his knees to all and sundry in the later hours of the evening.

“Thank you for returning it so promptly! One gets _impatient_ once in a while and she is one of my favorite authors.” 

Oh damn, now _he_ had to say something. 

“Er, chemically unstable wool? You said? Sounds like a nasty accident. Your profession doesn’t seem as safe as you implied, I’m beginning to fear for the state of your tail.” Immediately he wanted to press his fingers to his mouth and somehow force the words back in.

Garak smiled widely. The little hint of a chuckle in his eyes became a full-throated laugh. 

“You know I’ve always been flattered by your professional concern in that area. It should comfort you to know, Doctor, that I remain very much intact.”

He stood up out of the chair.

“Of course, you have my permission to see for yourself.” 

There was a slight ripple along the hem of the bathrobe, then it uncolied - a wide, thick tail, strips of muscle shifting beneath the thinner hide on the underside. He saw that unlike the carefully buffed tailspikes of the visiting dignitaries the rows of scutes along the top of Garak’s tail were left in their natural, duel-ready state. In the low golden light of the room it was pristine and unscarred, with the same faint greenish-blue tint as the rest of its’ owner - obviously the original, and not covered by a single stitch.

_Oh! Oh, I have lost the game_ Julian thought as he stepped forward, but his eyes were now on another prize altogether.


End file.
